The Time Has Come
by KHwhitelion
Summary: 1971 based. Willy Wonka had chosen his successor too late in the game. Charlie did not want to make that same mistake.


**W00t! Finished! **_**Finally**_**! This one-shot, and yes it is a one-shot, took forever! But I think the end result was worth it!**

**For those of you with short-term memory (don't worry, I'm one of you) I'll remind you that this is a 1971 based fic—thus, it includes the character versions from the Wilder Wonka-verse. Sorry to all you Depp fans, but I prefer this version of the movie.**

**Now, on to more important matters: This fic was created for a number of reasons. I think the first being vaguely explaining why Wonka sent out the golden tickets in the original movie (not the book or the Depp version) because I always found it odd that Wilder was thirty-four when he played a man ready to retire. And as he gives no real explanation (not like the book, where Wonka IS actually an older man, or the Depp version where there is actually a scene explaining why) my twisted mind decided to create one. See if you can find out what it is.**

**The second reason is because I'm poking fun at what usually happens in sequels to movies like 'Willy Wonka' (not the great glass elevator, mind you.) You'll see—hopefully—what I mean. Actually, that was what the fic was supposed to be about, but as I got more into it, I added my own creative aspects….which is why this took much longer than originally intended.**

**And now, without further ado, I present my crazy one-shot, and my first attempt at writing for 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory'!**

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* * *

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_"How did you like my factory, Charlie?" A man, known to the world as 'the greatest candy maker of all time' asked, tilting his head slightly in his seated position. Charlie, the boy whom he'd been addressing, turned, wonder and excitement from the day's events still blazing in his blue eyes._

_ "I think it's the most wonderful place in the whole world." He replied with a grin, young voice full of emotion, as he steered his eyes away from the spectacular view the Great Glass Wonkavator provided. Wonka—or more appropriately—_Willy_ Wonka, the man who'd spoken before, returned Charlie's smile with one of his own._

_ "I'm very pleased to hear you say that, Charlie..." he admitted, looking at the boy, who'd resumed gazing out of one of the many glass walls surrounding the Wonkavator. His voice had been full of warmth and sincerity, but masked behind his authenticity a different emotion, one strangely resembling sadness, flickered briefly in the man's own azure eyes. A sadness that would only be explained to the boy many years afterward. Choosing instead to focus on the present, Willy Wonka paused for a short moment, waiting until both Charlie and his grandfather—the member of his family to accompany him that day—had had their fill of the pint-sized town below, before adding "….because I'm giving it to you….."_

_

* * *

_

RII—IING! RII—IING!

The little alarm clock shook wildly, the vibration from its ringing nearly knocking the remaining half from its perch atop the night stand—it too only half—next to the bed and the figure sleeping in it. RII—IING! RII—IING! RII-_WHAM_! Before the clock could finish its 'wake-up call', a large hand came crashing down upon the small device; not only ceasing its racket, but accomplishing the clock's earlier feat and succeeding in sending it tumbling to the ground.

The hand, in turn, then slid back to its position beside the man it belonged to—the figure in bed—under the flannel sheets. It remained still for a moment, as if deciding what to do, before slowly, with its partner, began to move, forcing the lower part of the arm and the elbows into a push-up stance; the man preparing to raise himself into a sitting position. Though every ounce of his body yearned to stay under the warmth of the covers, what remained of his common sense knew better, and as such, he groaned slightly, and pushed his body upright, once again ending his morning argument with himself.

Sitting on his bed, the man yawned, rubbing his eyes—which up until this moment had been closed—and slowly opened them; his pupils sensitive to the sunlight pouring through the half-covered window on the wall opposite him. When his eyes finally _had_ adjusted to the light, and he felt the tiniest bit more awake, he started, as he did every morning, to scan the surrounding area—his room. Everything was, as usual, in place: The windows—three in all—were half-drawn, one on every wall save the one that connected to the hallway, his closet—its individual door still open, unable to close due to the day's clothing folded neatly over it, was, as it had always been, a gaping hole next to the window on the wall on his right. A mirror, or one half of it, hung by a nail across from him, part of a small end table placed directly underneath it, matching in color to the remaining section of the night stand that stood beside his bed. Yes, everything seemed indeed like it did every morning. Yet for some reason, today did not feel like it usually did, though he lacked an explanation as to _why_.

Yawning once more, the man decided it best if he fully got up, instead of wasting the rest of the day lounging around in bed. So with one great effort, he swung both legs over its side—the right side to be exact, as it was finished and would hurt less should he fall—and stood up.

It was then he began making his way over to the closet, in need of the outfit he'd put there the night before. Still groggy, it was easy to slip into his thoughts—something done absent-mindedly, as he muttered simply "memories, memories," not fully aware he was doing so. Closer now to the closet, his head cleared slightly, needing a bit of coordination in order to successfully remove the clothes from the open door. However, before he had the chance, the glint of glass caught the corner of his eye, and he instead made a detour; temporarily ignoring his closet as he approached the large mirror on the opposing wall.

Though the mirror, wood framing and all, had been split neatly down the center, it posed no problem for the man now staring intently at his reflection. Blinking a couple of times, his eyes, now fully removed of all sleep, rolled back and forth as he studied himself in the mirror. His face was shaved, him never fond of the 'rugged' look, the only exception being a quaint little mustache residing under his nose. Lines of all different lengths and thicknesses were imprinted into his right cheek, a sign he'd slept a little too hard on his pillow the night before, and matched nicely with the numerous creases in his striped pajamas. His hair, while combed during the day, had, as it was every morning, been tousled in various directions: sticking up in some places, and hanging down in others, reminding the man vaguely of a blond mop mixed with a disheveled tumbleweed. Although most would have laughed at the sight, the man remained completely unfazed, reaching up to brush away a piece of hair that had fallen into his eyes. But with the completion of this action, he finally remembered why, from the moment he awoke, he had felt different.

Leaning closer to his reflection, it suddenly dawned on the man that, despite his youthful appearance, he was, to put it simply, _getting older_. Time had gone by. No longer was he a shy skinny boy of twelve, with nothing going for him but a dismal future of washing clothes, no longer was he merely a guest touring the—in his opinion—most wonderful place in the whole world. And no longer was he a student of the world's greatest candy-man, Mr. Willy Wonka. He hadn't been for twenty years. And yet, as he reflected on his youth, on all the toil and stress he had to endure in an effort to keep his mentor's namesake, the chocolate factory, together, he realized just how many years _had _passed. Realized how _old_ he really was.

Pulling himself away from the mirror, the thirty-seven-year-old Charlie Bucket sighed, turning around and once more heading for his closet. However different the circumstances, perhaps it was time that he, like his mentor before him, started preparing for the future.

* * *

"Mother, I've decided." Charlie announced, hopping from the second-to-last step on the staircase and striding through the kitchen doorway at the bottom. Positioned in front of the stove to the left of the door, Mrs. Bucket tore her attention from the uncooked French toast before her, and raised her head to look at her son. Meeting her questioning gaze, Charlie was again reminded of how much time had gone by. She, like him, had changed quite a bit over the years, though, being much older than he was, the changes were more noticeable. Her hair, once long and strawberry-blond, was now short and grey in color—aging seemed to have taken away all desire to maintain the extra care required for her original hair length. Though her senses hadn't wavered, Mrs. Bucket's face had wrinkled considerably—almost prematurely— Charlie thought, the years she spent as a hard working widow contributing greatly to his mother's current physical appearance. Her body, while not seeming frail, was now hunched slightly, and the veins coating her hands and arms stuck out a good deal more than they used to. But, even as a woman in her sixties, to Charlie she was and would remain the strong, independent mother in her mid-thirties, who gave him hope and helped him through a difficult childhood without his father.

"Decided what, dear?" She asked him, temporarily resuming her cooking, when her son had begun to reminisce.

Charlie smiled and stepped forward, straightening his position. "I've decided" he began again, "that the time has come for me to find an air—heir—someone to take my place."

He paused then, in a somewhat state of amusement, half wondering, half predicting, his mother's reaction to his unexpected declaration. Mrs. Bucket immediately froze, her blue eyes widening in minor panic when her son uttered the words "take my place." She turned slowly, dropping the piece of toast she'd been holding onto the stove, not bothering to check if it made it into the pan or not. Her wrinkled lips parted as she struggled to find a response, but no words came out, her mouth opening and closing silently as a result.

After witnessing her reaction, the first thing Charlie noticed was how much like a fish she looked; her eyes widened to their full extent, her mouth—opened a great deal—moving rapidly without sound. The sight was quite ridiculous, and Charlie couldn't help but chuckle at the old woman.

"What's so funny, Charlie?" A different voice, this one male, inquired. The young candy-maker's attention shifted, and peering past his mother, his gaze fell upon an extremely elderly man seated at the kitchen table, one white eyebrow raised. His Grandpa Joe. At ninety years old, Joe Bucket was the eldest member of the family, having outlived not only Charlie's father, but his three other grandparents as well. And even though he was the youngest of the four, Charlie suspected his grandfather's long life did not just have to do with his age: As far as he knew, most ninety-year-old men didn't even have the strength to walk from one room to another, let alone make daily trips around the entire factory unaccompanied. Though Charlie knew Grandpa Joe was a man who'd never go down easily, he was sure twenty-five years of living in the Chocolate factory contributed largely to his grandfather's old age.

"Charlie, did you hear me?" The elderly man asked, swiveling in his chair to better face the young chocolatier, "I asked what you thought was so funny."

"Ah yes." He murmured, swinging the gold-tipped cane he inherited from his mentor. "What is laughter but that which can sooth even the most startling news?" He uttered, attempting to change the subject back, not at all about to confess he'd been laughing at his mother.

Grandpa Joe made to protest, but quickly withdrew from it. He, as well as Mrs. Bucket, were aware that arguing with the youngest Bucket family member would very well get them nowhere: years spent flying solo as a candy maker—far before he was ready to—had cost the boy most of his sanity. It was best, in a situation such as this, to refrain from pursuing the topic and roll with the punches, however nonsensical they may be.

""The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things,"" Charlie began rhythmically, placing his cane at his side and straightening his posture, "first and foremost settling on who is to take over the factory after I myself am not able."

"Not able?" Mrs. Bucket interrupted, her voice hoarse, "Charlie, do you mean that you're—"

Before she had a chance to complete her train of thought, the Chocolatier held up a hand and shook his head. "No, no it's nothing like that." He assured the older woman, a remorseful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "I'm not going to die…." A pause "….at least, I'm not planning on it. However," and here he laughed sadly, "Who knows what the future holds?"

Throughout his explanation, a lump had slowly been building in Charlie's throat, memories from his teen years and early adulthood constantly popping into his head. He took a moment to observe the faces of his remaining family members, unsurprised by the sorrowful expressions decorating their features; ones he was sure matched his own. The elder members of the Bucket family also remembered life following the winning of Willy Wonka's factory: how the first few 'golden' years were spent growing up and learning the many secrets to the great candy maker's success, how, about three and a half years into his training, he'd learned Wonka's greatest, and most terrible secret of all, and how, shortly after, he'd wound up alone, the sole survival of the chocolate factory and the candy within it resting entirely on his shoulders. Looking back on it now, Charlie couldn't help but marvel at the twisted spiral his life had taken: how, during the course of his life, things kept changing from bad, to good, and back to bad again. Which of course, was why he was currently standing in front of his mother and grandfather, trying to explain the sudden and precautionary decision he'd made.

"….I'm thirty-seven years old," he started again slowly, pushing the rim of his black top-hat higher up his head, "and while it seems I've many years left to live, there's no telling what fate has in store for me." Charlie shifted his weight to one side, supporting his body with his cane, before continuing. "Men mustn't forget the mistakes of their superiors, but learn from them, analyze them, in hopes to prevent them." He stated, eyes temporarily closing. "That is why I need to choose a successor—to ensure there is plenty of time left in my life to teach them everything I know, to confide in them all my precious candy making secrets….and to _prepare_ them for any games fate may decide to play against me."

He sighed then, more for dramatic impact than out of fatigue, regarding his family members with curious intent. "Now do you understand?"

Alarm no longer present on her face, Mrs. Bucket nodded, while behind her, Grandpa Joe's mouth tightened into a solemn smirk—understanding the seriousness of the situation, but also acknowledging the possibilities to make his grandson's situation somewhat _fun_.

"Tell me, Charlie," the old man asked, his dark eyes sparkling, "do you know _how_ you're going to choose your heir?"

Upon the old man's question, Charlie's somber mood immediately changed, and he brightened, as only a true madman can. "I've got a few ideas…."

* * *

_I've got a few ideas…._

Grandpa Joe scowled, staring up at the large metallic door before him. It had been nearly two weeks since Charlie's announcement, and the old man still had absolutely no idea _what_ method his grandson was going use to select his successor. Oh, he'd tried asking—many times, in fact—having always been the one person Charlie felt comfortable confiding in. However, the time he had spent under Wonka's wing had made the young candy man somewhat secretive….and a little paranoid as well; stories told by his mentor about spies and traitors fueling Charlie's determination—or perhaps habit at this point—to keep all business involving candy a secret from everyone else. Even his own grandfather. Which was partly why the oldest Bucket was now glaring challengingly at the sealed entry to the inventing room.

His brow furrowed deeper as he tried to think—tried to remember the lock combination used to open the door—despite the very possible chance it had been changed over the years. He couldn't get Charlie's words out of his head; the last words spoken about the man's next 'project,' before he locked himself in the inventing room—only leaving the place for meal times and to sleep. It nearly drove Grandpa Joe crazy—and probably would have had he not had an understanding of what crazy _was_—not knowing what strange new creation Charlie was working on. In fact, he felt a little left out. But out of respect for his grandson, the old man had stayed away. He remembered from his first out of the few visits to the inventing room he took how stern Willy Wonka had sounded when stressing his potential downfall should any new candies be shown to others outside the factory, _before_ they were released into the world. Oh sure, he remembered that. But Wonka's situation had been entirely different; he didn't have family residing in his factory with him, nor was he conversing with people—most of them—whom he knew he could trust. Charlie was different. Charlie _was _family. And no matter how wrapped up he became in his work, no matter how batty he'd become over the years, Grandpa Joe did not—_would not_ believe his grandson had lost the capability to trust him. Thus, raising a bony hand, he curled his fingers into a fist, and knocked on the door.

At first, he heard nothing, no voices, no lull of noise coming from the various machines inhabiting the inventing room, no recognition at all he was even there. Though it slightly irritated the old man, he knew from experience said machines could be particularly loud, so he decided to knock again, this time with more force. Again no response. This not only surprised him, but was beginning to scare him as well. True, it was loud in the room beyond, but Grandpa Joe had been as well—loud enough that a man of Charlie's age should have been able to hear. So why….?

"Charlie?" He cried suddenly, fear rising in his chest, "Charlie are you in there?" It didn't make sense. Why wasn't his grandson answering? Had there been an accident? Or…..

"Grandpa?" a younger voice—one thankfully familiar—sounded "is that you outside?"

The older man instantly pulled his hand from the door, a wave of relief sweeping through him. "Yes, Charlie," he replied, half-smiling, "it's me."

"Perfect!" came the reply, "You're just in time!"

"Just in time?" Joe Bucket echoed, creasing his brow in confusion, "Just in time for what?"

Instead of answering right away, he heard the faint sound of a flute, followed by words he couldn't make out, as they died in the roar of the equipment inside. More puzzled than curious now, the old man tried to decipher—although he already had a vague idea—the meaning of Charlie's words. As he stood there in thought, the handle on the door began to turn, opposite of course, as it was opening from the inside. Senses not quite what they used to be, Grandpa Joe noticed this only when a tremendous creaking sound shook him from his thoughts, and the large metallic door swung away, revealing a little orange-faced man with green hair, staring up at him, hands behind his back. Grandpa Joe blinked, startled for some reason. Not at the sight of the Oompa-Loompa—he'd long ago become accustomed to seeing them around—but mainly because he'd expected Charlie to be the one opening the door.

Their gazes still locked, the Oompa-Loompa cocked his head, wondering why the old man did not simply step through into the next room. Noticing his muddled expression, Grandpa Joe merely shrugged, smiling at the little man in thanks for letting him in.

The inventing room had been modified considerably over the years, as times changed and technology grew and improved. Not as crowded as it used to be, the room was still a mess, being the one place both Wonka and Charlie had forbid Mrs. Bucket from entering and tidying up. Not that Grandpa Joe was complaining, as he felt the disorganization almost added to the mystery that was candy-inventing. _Speaking of inventing,_ he thought, eyes scanning the area, _where's my grandson? _

It wasn't hard to find him—the young man's burgundy coat stuck out like a sore thumb against the pale colors of the wall and ceiling. Even with his poor eyesight, Grandpa Joe located his grandson within thirty seconds, and headed over to him, careful not to disturb the various Oompa-Loompas busy at work. Perched on a ladder, the ambitious Chocolatier stood over one of his sleeker, slimmer and more oddly-shaped machines, his top half delved into a large funnel-like device sticking out of the contraption, completely obscuring it from view. There seemed to be a bit of motion at his waist, signifying whatever he was doing must have involved some movement from his upper body—most likely his hands and/or arms. Whatever he _was_ doing, Grandpa Joe hoped sincerely that Charlie maintained his balance atop the ladder. The last thing their family—and the chocolate factory—needed, was another premature death on their hands….

"Voila!" the machine….or more appropriately, the man inside it….shrieked, causing the eldest Bucket to jump clear out of his skin, "It's done!" Heaving a triumphant sigh, Charlie pulled himself from the mechanical device; his face streaked with sweat and stained with…._something_….but grinning from ear to ear. Mopping his brow with his forearm—the sleeve having been rolled up—the candy maker turned, completely expecting his grandfather to be standing before him, a puzzled but anxious look carved into his wrinkled face. Which of course he was.

"Grandpa Joe!" Charlie then hollered, starting down the ladder, head still in the old man's direction "so glad you could join me! You're just in time!" Only about four steps until he reached the floor, Charlie decided that walking down them would take too much effort, and as such simply jumped from his position to the floor, landing a foot or so in front of his grandfather.

"In time for what, Charlie?" Grandpa Joe asked again, staring hard at the dusty crimson back of the other man. Charlie, still grinning, spun around, eyes blazing with the excitement only seen after completing some wonderful new master piece.

"The finest candy since Wonka himself!" Charlie exclaimed, waving his index finger at his grandfather, "My greatest creation yet! The problems to all our solution—WAIT A MINUTE!" He cried suddenly, raising the hand with the extended finger. Manned at their stations, the Oompa-Loompas turned their green-topped heads in Charlie's direction. "Strike that! Reverse it!" The candy maker went on, after confirming the little men had completed the action. He paused then, wiping his hands with each other and making a sort of clapping sound, content they'd done as he just instructed.

While Charlie's outburst had ceased to faze him—having gotten used to the phrase by now—Grandpa Joe was struck odd by the uncanny resemblance the younger man bore to his mentor at the moment he'd started shouting. The stance, mannerism….and the words themselves, of course….all reminded Joe Bucket prominently of Willy Wonka, as if it were _he_ standing in front of the elderly man, rather than Charlie. It wasn't the first time he'd noticed the similarities between his grandson and the original chocolatier—after the boy had gone mad, they became somewhat daily—but it _was_ the first time he had really been awed by it. Perhaps the current circumstances had to do with it; standing in the inventing room, the excitement of choosing an heir, this new candy Charlie kept blathering about—it felt a bit of a repeat—parallel instances from twenty-five years prior being re-written, re-used. Grandpa Joe shook his head, not quite sure what to make of it all….

"Is there a problem, grandpa?" Charlie inquired inquisitively, their faces only a foot or so apart.

The old man flinched, startled by the lack of space between them, and took a step back before saying, "a problem? No...no, why?"

A puzzling look crossed the candy man's face, one eyebrow raised. "You were shaking your head…." He speculated, tilting his _own_ head to the side. A short silence followed suite, though for what reasons, Grandpa Joe couldn't figure out. Lips parting slightly, he was about to take Charlie up on the matter, when the chocolatier threw up his arms with a shrug.

"Ah well, it doesn't matter," he concluded abruptly, more to himself than to the man opposite him, "come along. I've got something _spectacular_ to show you!" Beckoning to his grandfather to follow, Charlie turned sharply on his heal and walked back toward the machine he'd been fiddling with prior to his grandfather's visit. Hesitant at first, Grandpa Joe eventually nodded, mimicking the other man's actions and heading over to the peculiarly shaped device. An opportunity had been handed to him, one like no other before: to witness the unveiling of something with the ability to impact not only Charlie's future, but the rest of the Bucket family as well. And while the wild gleam in his grandson's eye faintly unnerved him, Grandpa Joe knew that if he turned down this invitation, this glimpse into the future, he may never have the chance to see something like….whatever Charlie had created….again.

"Now," the candy maker alleged, shaking Joe Bucket from his thoughts, "Let's get down to business." His back still to his grandfather, Charlie's words had begun to pick up their pace, in time with the growing excitement forming in his chest. "What you are about to see could be the very turning point in my little journey—the event that marks not only the beginning of a new story, but a glimpse of the end of an old one as well. This is a historical moment! The likes of which neither you nor I will ever come across again."

As he spoke, Charlie had been slowly circling the machine, occasionally flipping a switch or pressing a button. Upon the completion of his last sentence, however, he twisted once more towards the older man, smiling wryly. "And without further ado," he said finally, raising his hand over a particularly large yellow button, "I present to you the crème of the crop—the best of them all!"

He slammed his hand down on the button it had been suspended above, and stepped away, rejoining Grandpa Joe at his side. As the two men watched, the machine before them started to vibrate and spark: the colorful knobs and switches flashing violently. A low rumble began from somewhere deep within its core, gradually building in volume. The funnel that Grandpa Joe found Charlie in when he entered the room was now emitting vibrant—and somewhat fluorescent—puffs of smoke that smelled sweet but looked to be radioactive. On the whole, the machine seemed as though it were having a seizure; a blinding, deafening and _multicolored_ seizure that went on for over thirty seconds. Eventually, after building and building, the vociferous racket came to an abrupt halt, save for one, diminutive buzzing that sounded as soon as the rest of the metallic device had silenced. Somewhat confused at first, it took him a moment to realize the small noise had come from a compartment—no bigger than six inches—gradually extending from the machine's backside. While he stood there, wondering what on earth was inside the miniature cubicle—for he knew something was inside it—Charlie had swung his cane over his back and now approached the machine, free hand poised and eager to reach into this newly revealed slot and show is grandfather the product of the previous commotion. His expression, already contorted with a smile, now grew rather smug, and his azure eyes lit up.

"And now, Grandpa Joe," he said, voice strong and full of confidence, "my latest, my greatest, piece of work! Behold!" He cried, boosting his tone an octave in volume as he stuck his hand into the compartment, "I give you…." He pulled out a closed fist, "…._the golden gobstopper_!"

Uncurling his fingers, he exposed to his anxious grandfather a small—about the size of a rubber ball; the kind that comes out slot machines—spherical object, blue in color with many colored speckles. Never taking his eyes off it, the young candy man murmured, "Isn't it a beauty?"

Grandpa Joe, however, frowned. "I….I don't understand…." he started, looking from the candy, to his grandson, and back to the candy again, "it just looks like a regular gobstopper to me."

Never losing his self-satisfied air, Charlie shook his cane at the old man. "One must never judge by appearances." He alleged, his voice a near monotone but with an edge of capricious wisdom. His eyes gleamed, as if he were playing a game with the man before him. Grandpa Joe made to speak, to urge Charlie on, but before he had a chance, the young candy maker shot his hand forward, and popped the gobstopper into his grandfather's mouth.

"Mmf-ffhmh—"

"You remember, I assume, the disgraceful stunt during the golden ticket search, right?" Charlie went on, oblivious to his grandfather's muffled shrieks as he tried not to choke on the little candy, "when someone thought they could pull one over Willy Wonka by creating their own counterfeit golden ticket?" He laughed then, once again shaking his cane. "Of course you do. I told you myself." His eyes glazed over for a moment, memories from his past temporarily clouding his thoughts. "It was a scandal—one that I myself do not wish to repeat. But….how could I do it? How could I make sure something like that didn't happen a second time?"

There was a pause, for no real reason, before Charlie grinned, "And then it hit me!" He shrieked suddenly, thrusting his hand in the air, "why not use something no one has _ever_ been able to duplicate? Why not choose an heir using a _candy_?" He was genuinely beaming now, a slight complacency mixed into his expression. "That's when I was smacked with a particularly vicious stroke of genius." Dropping his hand and directing it straight in front of him, "Open your mouth," he prompted, pushing down on his chin.

Grandpa Joe obeyed, dropping his lower jaw.

"Now stick out your tongue."

Again, he obliged, wondering what his grandson was getting at…..until he saw the color of the gobstopper….

….and his tongue.

"Charlie—what—?"

Before the old man choked, Charlie abruptly snatched the candy perched on the tip of his grandfather's tongue, unfazed by the saliva coating its strange, shimmering golden surface. "Much like the golden tickets, there are only five of these in the world—six, counting the one you just ate—and, _like_ the golden tickets, I plan to release them into the world disguised as regular, ordinary gobstoppers." He held up the candy, as if to observe it. "The only way to know if you've found one is if the final color looks like _this_." He stopped for a second, squinting with one eye at the little candy. "And of course, if your tongue changes color." He laughed then, throwing the gobstopper in the air and then catching it. "After all, once the candy is eaten, there has to be some visible proof to show their claims aren't fake."

Grandpa Joe, still staring down at his oddly golden tongue, creased his brow; a part of the puzzle not quite making sense. "Wait a minute, Charlie," he said, glancing at the young man, "how will they know to check for the color change?"

"Ah! Glad you asked!" The candy maker responded, "when and if they happen to find a golden gobstopper, the candy, upon reaching its final color, will begin to glow—so brilliantly, in fact—that they'll have no choice but to remove it from their mouths out of sheer curiosity!" His voice shot up an octave, his excitement almost becoming more than his body could contain.

Grandpa Joe watched him inquisitively, something still bothering him. "But….if you're using candy, Charlie, how will _you_ know who's found it? If the gobstopper _does_ get eaten?"

Charlie shook his head—thought better of it—then nodded. "The reason the gobstopper glows, grandpa, is because of a chemical in the gold dye—non-toxic, don't worry—that causes it to when it comes in contact with saliva. And when _that_ happens, it will trigger the activation of a device in my office specifically designed to identify the person eating the candy by their saliva, and catalogue it into the main computer so that it—and I—won't forget."

"Wouldn't….wouldn't it be easier just to watch the TV?" The old man asked, baffled by Charlie's complex and outrageous explanation. The young candy man continued to smile, in a way that resembled a child who'd just learned the location of all his friends in hide-and-seek.

"Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy." Charlie mused, setting his cane firmly on the floor.

* * *

After his plans had become public, Charlie, within a day or two of showing his grandfather, had let the little candies—in disguise of course— out into the world. Those two days became weeks, and weeks became a month; the Bucket family plagued by the suspense of wondering who the first to find the golden gobstopper would be. While his mother, and even Grandpa Joe, occasionally lost sleep over it, Charlie himself was not worried. He knew when he created the sweets, that they would take longer to find—a gobstopper, after all, was less than a fourth the size of a standard Wonka bar—but, unlike his mentor before him, he could afford to wait. He could afford to sit back and relax—to go about his business—while the rest of mankind scrambled frantically like animals, trying to get ahead of the game by buying as many gobstoppers as possible. For Charlie, choosing a successor was merely a precaution, in case a time _did_ ever come when his days were numbered.

Strolling down one of the factory's many hallways—he'd just finished the prototype for a new kind of candy—the Chocolatier heard sound coming from his rarely used living room. Poking his head in the doorway, Charlie found both his mother and his grandfather glued in front of the TV, poised on the edge of the old couch, as they listened intently to a middle-aged, graying man with a microphone, speaking in a foreign accent. He was standing in front of what appeared to be a shop of sorts….one that was filled with an unusually large amount of people. Vaguely amused at the sight of them focusing so hard on a medium-sized screen, Charlie stepped into the room and leaned up against the wall, the back of his burgundy coat wrinkling in the process.

"Still so engaged with the outside world?" He speculated, folding his arms, "I thought I told you—it wastes time worrying about something that has yet to happen. We should only concern ourselves when each victor makes it known they have acquired the prize."

"But that's just it, Charlie," Grandpa Joe informed him, turning his attention to this grandson for a moment, "Someone's found the first golden gobstopper!"

The young man's eyes widened, and for the first time in a long time, while still being surprised, Charlie looked almost _sane_. "R-really now." He replied, attempting to remain calm as before, but not at all succeeding, "Well then….let's have a look….shall we?" Having not visited his office that day, the pace in his stride hastily quickened as Charlie headed over to his remaining family members, joining them in front of the TV. Resting his lower arms against the sofa's headboard, the chocolatier tuned in attentively to the program:

"_And here in our very own Paris, France, ze first golden- gobstoppair has just been found."_ The same man from before announced, making a swooping gesture within his hand, _"We are live wis ze winnair and her famille—one of ze most successful bakairs in Paris."_

The camera then shifted, following the Frenchman as he walked towards a man who looked about to be in his early thirties. He was dressed plainly, with an apron tied around his waist, bits of flour decorating his round, pink face.

"_Monsieur Eclaire,"_ the reporter continued, _"How does eet feel to be ze parent of ze first golden gobstoppair winnair?"_

The pink-faced man smiled, his beady eyes twinkling. _"Ah, oui,"_ he answered, wiping his hands on his apron _"I knew our Marie would be ze first to find one…."_

As he spoke, the camera started to make a slow pan of the room, which Charlie guessed must have been the bakery. It wasn't very impressive size-wise, and the pale colors on the walls—a horrible combination, he thought— seemed washed out. There were a few tables and chairs scattered across the floor, though most people were standing, and a counter that displayed various sweets jammed against the right wall, next to a door that no doubt led to the kitchen in the back room. _Nothing special_, Charlie thought, attention waning. He was about to leave, dubbing this as a waste of time, when the camera suddenly stopped; now resting on a woman, also in her thirties, standing beside one of the tables. A closer look caused Charlie's jaw to drop. Kneeling on one of the seats, a little girl, no more than ten years old, was leaning heavily on the table with one elbow. She was unusually chubby, with small blue eyes and curly blond hair, with a round face that matched the man who had spoken earlier, signaling she must have been his daughter—this 'Marie' he had spoken so highly about.

However, that wasn't what threw Charlie for a loop. As he watched the reporter approach the woman, the girl kept taking handfuls of the assorted pastries stacked before her and shoving them into her small mouth, giving him the sickening feeling of familiarity. As if he'd seen someone much like her before...many years ago….

A piece of chocolate dripping down her face from a particularly bulky creampuff, Marie reached up to lick it off with her short, _golden_ tongue.

Slamming his hands down hard, Charlie grimaced with disgust. "You have _got_ to be kidding me." He groaned.

* * *

**Was anyone surprised by the ending? Or just confused? Either way, I'll explain: I was trying to go for a female-ish Augustus Gloop, as movie sequels, or the end of movies or TV shows when there's a fast forward of the protagonist in a similar situation as another main character, that there are often people who appear—resembling the others from the movie when the protagonist was a child—except they'd be in the opposite gender. It happens; I've seen it, although at the moment, I can't remember where.**

**Second, did anyone figure out what happened to Willy Wonka? I tried to hint at it as best I could without giving it away….because I enjoy doing that. I don't know if I'll write something else explaining it thoroughly, as I have other fanfics to finish, but you never know.**

**Ah yes….the whole 'explanation' involving the golden gobstoppers and the chemical in the gold coloring….well, this takes place twenty-five years after the movie, meaning it's about 1996. And even though the technology was nothing compared to what it is now, in the original movie, Wonka has created so many things that are way ahead of their time-even today. So I figured, in twenty-five years, Charlie should be able to create things even **_**further**_** ahead. **

**Now, just for fun: I didn't say anything earlier, as I didn't want to give away the beginning, but for some reason, I imagined adult Charlie, with blond hair in a style that resembled Obi-wan (from 'Star Wars episode III') or Wesley's from 'The Princess Bride'. I definitely imagined Wesley's face, and as for the outfit, for some reason I pictured him in 2005 Wonka's clothes, minus the gloves and 'W' symbol on his hat. **

**I tried modeling adult Charlie off Wonka's character, but also tried to make him a little different. I think he ended up more like Wonka than I would have liked, but that can't really be helped.**

**Wow this is long….okay, one more thing, then I'm done, I promise. I tried to get the ages of the characters—I know Grandpa Joe is ninety in the book but he looked more like in his sixties in the 1971 movie. Same with Charlie and Mrs. Bucket—Charlie looked twelve, and Mrs. Bucket looked to be in her mid or late thirties.**

**Okay, that's it! Review if you want—I'm really interested in seeing what people thought of this!**


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